The Secret Clan: The Complete Series

by Amanda Scott

  All the women had been imprisoned at the Tolbooth, and it was thus from the north end of the square that the procession would come. Doubtless, Beaton and his lads were forming up to lead the way with pomp and circumstance.

  Beside him, Molly said, “Fin, do you see her?”

  Thinking she was asking about Beth, Patrick frowned, because from where they were, in front of the Marykirk near the pyre, surely they would hear the crowd react to the procession’s approach long before they could see anyone in it.

  Oddly, Fin said, “I doubt that I could see her in this crowd, lass, or any of them. Faith, unless I saw a familiar face, I’d not know them, because they’d look like anyone else to me, just smaller.”

  “Who?” Patrick demanded.

  “The little—”

  “Hush, Molly,” Fin said sharply, his eyes scanning the crowd as they would before a battle, seeking enemies and possible allies.

  Nodding, Molly moved closer to Patrick and said in a voice that would not carry beyond his ears, “Recall that Fin has the gift of second sight, Patrick. He does not speak of it, for I think it embarrasses him that he can see the wee folk when most other mortals cannot. I don’t know how much I’m allowed to tell you, but I did hope some of them might be here today to help Beth.”

  “Considering that they are most likely responsible for her predicament—”

  “We’d best not discuss that here,” Molly interjected warningly, “lest we find ourselves bound up beside her, facing the blaze. I will say, though, that I’ve tried to communicate with the one I once knew.”

  “I am glad you and Fin are here with me,” he said with a sigh, scanning the crowd in the same experienced way that Kintail did. “Fin should not have lingered after Jamie agreed to his leaving, though.”

  “Neither of us would abandon you,” Molly said flatly, “and thanks to Jamie, Fin is not in much danger. We’ll return home soon enough.”

  A roar erupted from the crowd, and peering over heads in front of him, Patrick saw the procession slowly approaching.

  “I’ll get my horse,” he said. “You and Fin will do what suits you best, lass, but seek any way you can to help her. And, Molly,” he added, nearly choking on what he was about to say, “if we fail and they start that fire without strangling the women first, for the love of God, let your aim be true.”

  Grimly, Molly nodded, and satisfied that rather than let her younger sister burn to death, she would use her great skill to put an arrow through Beth’s heart, Patrick pushed his way through the crowd to where Jock held the horses.

  They were behind the old jail, but Patrick knew that even if he could reach Beth on horseback, he would have little chance for escape, because routes leading out of the city were anything but clear. There were really only two, and to get to either one, he would have to ride up or down Spittal Street, along the north edge of the square, because on the south side, the Marykirk backed against the town wall.

  Spittal Street teemed with people, and there would be guards at the town gates. Never had he felt so little confidence. Where, he wondered, was his fortitude?

  He found Jock and the four horses easily enough. There was none for Beth, but Patrick’s stallion could easily carry two, and an extra mount would only slow them at the outset. Patrick had worried that the lad would not be able to hold all four, but despite the din, they seemed quiet enough.

  Patrick mounted a magnificent black, the larger of two stallions that James had provided. Shifting his sword into place, he made sure his pistol was ready to fire and his dirk easy to grab. From the look of things, no weapon would help much, but having them handy made him feel better. Whatever happened, he was going to save Beth if he could. If he could not, he would die with her, because there would be no turning back. If the crowd or Davy Beaton’s guards did not slaughter him, Beaton would hang him at the first opportunity.

  But that would not matter, not if Beth died.

  He could see the procession clearly now, and he urged the stallion forward, glowering at anyone who even looked as if he might dare object to a mounted horseman pressing his way through the crowd. His fierce looks quelled many, but he paid little heed, his attention firmly fixed on the procession.

  The seven women, draped in black, stumbled awkwardly along with heads bowed low, each led on a chain by a soldier of the Kirk.

  He knew he would have little time to act once they reached the pyre, because in Scotland, unlike England, folks did not think it necessary to cause the actual death of a witch by fire, so in most cases the authorities mercifully ordered her strangled at the stake before incineration. However, since the cardinal’s purpose was to produce a grand spectacle, Patrick doubted that Beaton would allow any of his victims to die mercifully.

  Warily, he glanced around, certain that he must be drawing unwanted attention, but he saw other riders now, clearly gentry, who obviously thought themselves too grand to stand amidst the rabble in the square.

  The condemned women were much nearer, and to his horror, he saw that each of them was heavily hooded and draped. Moreover, the chains were attached to witches’ bridles, heavy iron rings that closed about the necks of the condemned women. Each had a spike in front, directed upward and inward, that pierced her black hood and filled her mouth, the whole horrible device acting as a painful gag.

  Covered as each face was by both hood and steel, they all looked the same. He could not tell which one was Beth.

  The noise was deafening. People shouted, shrieked, and roared at the witches, and Beth could see nothing through the hood covering her face. The awful steel spike poked her with every movement, hurting her mouth, and the collar around her neck rubbed the coarse material, bruising her. She could hear some of the women moaning and keening, even over the roar of the crowd, but although she had never been so frightened in her life, she would not weep. She would not give Cardinal David Beaton that satisfaction.

  He had not even questioned those who had accused her. Nor had he let her face or question them. He had accepted her guilt and declared her penalty as if the accusation alone were sufficient. Doubtless, the other six women had suffered similar trials. Surely, God did not condemn people that easily.

  She tried to pretend she was elsewhere, but her imagination failed.

  Thanks to the bridle, she could not have talked if she tried, but the soldiers had tauntingly said that the bridles would not prevent the women’s screams. The cardinal, they said, wanted the crowd to hear them and know that even by shrieking to their evil master, the witches could not prevent God’s will.

  How she longed to hear Maggie Malloch’s voice through the din, to hear her say that she had discovered new powers against the Kirk, that the magic that had so splendidly clothed Beth and decked her with magnificent jewels was after all strong enough to save her. But she had already heard Maggie’s voice for the last time. Even an army of wee folk could not help her now.

  The toe of her right shoe caught the edge of a cobblestone, and she tripped again, but a strong hand caught her just as it had the other times she had stumbled. They would not let her fall in the street, because they wanted to execute her without any unnecessary delay.

  It was hard to maintain any dignity with her hands tied behind her and the heavy, hooded robe tangling her legs. The urge to whimper and moan like the others was nearly overwhelming, but she would have fortitude. She was sure that Patrick was in the crowd somewhere, and she would not shame him or herself. She would go to her death in a manner that befitted Lady MacRae.

  She wished she could speak with Patrick just one last time to tell him how much she loved him. She had scolded herself repeatedly since their last meeting for failing to say the words when he did, but she had been so shocked then and so unsure that he had meant them that she had said nothing. Even now, she feared he had said he loved her only because he was terrified for her. Still, it was enough that he cared as a friend. He was the best friend she had ever had.

  The chain connected to the ring aroun
d her neck jerked her forward, and two strong hands caught her by her upper arms. She had to press her lips to the horrid spike to keep from gagging on it, and only fierce control kept her from struggling against the bruising grip on her arms. Her legs would not hold her.

  “Stand still, damn ye,” a harsh voice growled. “Ye’ll meet your Maker soon enough. Dinna give me trouble afore then.”

  The collar felt tighter around her throat. Could he be going to strangle her?

  She did not want to die. She had only just begun to live.

  Tears pricking his eyes, Patrick watched from his saddle as the men leading the witches stood them before their stakes, lifted them, and then slipped the iron rings over the stake tops, holding the women in place as securely as if each were bound from head to toe. He had been sure that he would know Beth despite the hood and robe, that he would recognize her shape or know her walk, or just instinctively know her from the others. But he did not.

  The men stepped away, and the roar of the crowd faded as Cardinal Beaton stepped forward, looking magnificent in his red robes and gold miter. Pressing his palms together in a prayerful way, he waited for the din to fade to silence. Then he waited a moment longer.

  When he had everyone’s attention, he said in a clarion voice, “Hear me, one and all. As God hath made covenant with His Kirk, binding Himself to be our God and requiring of us both faith and obedience, so does Satan align with his subjects. They agree to obey his rules, and he promises to grant their desires. Each of these women has made compact with the devil, agreeing to use his help in the working of wonders. Because witchcraft is the most detestable sin in the sight of God, because fire is His only certain purification, and because, by Moses’ law, no witch may continue to live, death is the witch’s portion, justly assigned by God.”

  Automatically steadying his horse, Patrick stared at the hooded figures, but he could still see no difference, nothing to tell him which one was Beth. Realizing that all hope was dying, he decided he had to let her know that he was there.

  The crowd was silent, still listening to the cardinal’s oration.

  “Today you will see plain evidence of God’s will,” Beaton declared. “Watch closely, that you may witness what comes to those who doubt His power.”

  Shutting his eyes instead and thinking only of Beth, Patrick whistled the signal he had used to call Zeus, certain that she would recognize it as easily as the hawk would. Zeus might bate when he heard it, but he was jessed and the King would calm him. And Beth would at least know she had friends nearby. She would guess they were helpless, but it would reassure her to know they were there.

  To his astonishment, a matching whistle answered his.

  He opened his eyes. Surely, it could not have been Beth, not with the witch’s bridle gagging her. Although he had heard that such bridles did not prevent victims from screaming, no one could whistle with a sharp metal bit pressing on her tongue.

  Beaton’s hand shot up to signal the lighting of the fire, and Patrick realized that the cardinal meant to burn them alive. Frantic now, he glanced at Molly, expecting to see her set an arrow to her bow, but she stared straight ahead.

  Following her intent gaze, he saw Zeus spread his powerful wings. The King reached to stop him, but it was too late. Having snatched off his hood and somehow slipped his jesses, Zeus swooped to one of the witches and landed on her shoulder.

  Without a thought for the people blocking his way, Patrick gave spur to the stallion, and a path somehow opened before him to the single, black-hooded figure with the hawk on her shoulder. He charged toward her, and for all the attention he paid his surroundings, he and she might have been alone in the square.

  As he drew near, a man-at-arms leaped toward her, his dirk raised to stab, but just as Patrick recognized the man’s intent, Zeus screamed and raised his wings threateningly, giving the soldier pause, and a gray streak hurled itself forward, teeth bared, knocking the man to the ground.

  Reining in and reaching down as the fiery stallion reared and pawed the air, Patrick slipped an arm around the figure with the still screaming hawk on its shoulder. Zeus shot skyward and away, and as he did, Patrick lifted the slender black-robed woman, who seemed weightless now, and held her easily as he flipped the iron ring over the top of the stake. Then, holding her tightly, he spurred the plunging stallion. He could do nothing about the iron ring around Beth’s neck, her bound hands, or the terrible witch’s bridle, but she was free, and he held her close.

  How the stallion made it through the crowd, he would never know. He saw people flee before the maddened beast’s flashing, iron-shod hooves, but he knew the cardinal’s men would risk life and limb to keep one of Beaton’s witches from escaping. Nevertheless, as the horse plunged forward, the way continued to clear until no one stood in its path. No one challenged him even at the town gate. Even so, Patrick rode hard until he was sure that no one followed closely enough to catch them. Then, at last, he slowed to make Beth more comfortable.

  Beth felt enormous relief when the horse began to slow. She had known at once that the rider was Patrick, and he held her as he rode, but she felt battered and bruised nonetheless. The hood was so stifling she could hardly breathe, but at least she was alive. When the horse stopped, the hard, muscular arm that clamped her close to the rider’s body eased its hold, and he shifted her to sit before him. The heavy ring around her neck opened, and he pulled off the hood.

  “Thank God,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her and lightly kissing her forehead. They were the first words she had heard since the bird’s sharp talons had spasmodically clutched her shoulder.

  She hugged him tightly, not wanting ever to let go, but after a few moments, Patrick held her a little away and looked searchingly into her face. “You’re really all right,” he said. “Can you talk?”

  She nodded. “I think so. My tongue is sore, but it works.”

  “That bridle must have been faulty. The spike seems to have fallen off.”

  “Did it? It was horrid, but when Zeus came to me, I forgot about it.”

  “Did you not whistle to him?”

  “I heard you whistle,” she said, smiling weakly. “I tried to answer, but I did not think I had made a sound. The noise around me was awful, but I did hear you.”

  He hugged her again and kissed her on the mouth. She responded at once, astonished that she felt no pain after enduring the horrid bridle for so long. Even her tongue did not hurt anymore, as she soon discovered. Moments passed, during which she did her best to forget the past days and the terror of that day, and to remember the feeling of Patrick’s body beneath her hands and that of his hands on her, but when the stallion moved nervously, Patrick chuckled.

  “We dare not linger, much as I want to,” he murmured against her lips. “I don’t have a mount for you, sweetheart, but the black will carry us both easily.”

  She sighed when he straightened. “Where are we going?”

  “To the Highlands,” he said.

  “Nay,” she heard another familiar voice say. “That’ll be the first place they’ll search for ye, so tell him ye’ll be safer d’ye head south tae Dunsithe.”

  Beth saw that Patrick had not heard, because his expression did not change. He was still waiting for her to comment.

  “Tell him,” Maggie said sharply, taking form on his shoulder.

  Wide-eyed, Beth nodded.

  “What is it?” Patrick asked, glancing around warily.

  “We must go to Dunsithe,” Beth said.

  “And tell him no tae stop for anything along the way,” Maggie ordered.

  Patrick looked into Beth’s eyes. “Dunsithe?”

  “Aye,” she said, “and we’re not to stop until we get there.”

  Patrick’s eyes narrowed. “But why do you want to go there?”

  Beth hesitated.

  “Tell him,” Maggie said.

  “We must go there,” Beth said. “Maggie Malloch says we must.”

  “Tell him Molly and Kin
tail will meet ye there—and your mother, too.”

  Beth obeyed, and Patrick looked sternly at her, but to her surprise, he did not instantly accuse her of having lost her mind.

  “Something strange happened in that square, too,” he said at last. “I won’t pretend to understand, but I won’t question any of it now, either. The only thing that matters now is that you are with me.”

  Grinning, Maggie said, “Tell him the crowd in the square freed them other women after he took you. They thought the hawk were a messenger from above, declaring heavenly opposition tae the cardinal’s will. Tell him, too, that your cousin Huntly and others prevented the cardinal’s men from following you. Pandemonium reigns in Stirling yet.”

  When Beth relayed the information, Patrick frowned. “I will ask one question,” he said. “Just who is telling you all this?”

  “She is,” Beth said, pointing at his shoulder, only to see that Maggie had vanished again. “She’s gone now. I know you don’t believe in her, but—”

  “Look,” Patrick said, gesturing.

  Beth obeyed and smiled when she saw Thunder loping toward them. Then, hearing a mewing sound, she looked up and saw a hawk circling overhead.

  Patrick said, “I think I’ll just accept that you’re safe, sweetheart, and leave it at that for now.”

  Relieved but exhausted, she soon slept in his embrace, and continued to sleep as they rode through the night without stopping any longer than to let the stallion drink from a brook or river. They arrived at Dunsithe late the following afternoon.

  In the cobbled courtyard of the huge castle, Beth gazed about her in awe as two pretty women and a tall, well-built man came running out to welcome them.